


Rules For Hunting

by procrastin8or951



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-01 08:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4012024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastin8or951/pseuds/procrastin8or951
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hunting is control, fear is vulnerability, be ready all the time. On a hunt, he's ready. It's between hunts, in all the empty spaces, that Dean falls apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter written for the hoodie-time prompt: Dean had bulimia. "Had" being rather loosely defined- the main thing is that Dean's not binge eating or throwing up anymore and in traditional Winchester fashion the issue's been swept under the carpet. Except that John's been gone on a hunt longer than expected and the food supply is running low. Dean's been sneakily giving most of it to Sam and is starving hungry and worried about where John is. Eventually John gets back on halloween, with food, and Dean manages to choke down some dinner like a normal person. But John's also brought back some candy for trick or treaters- exactly the sort of thing Dean used as binge food. John can't work out why Dean's so jittery, until he realises that with his blood sugar all messed up and the worry Dean's worried about relapsing.

“Just a few more days” sinks into his empty stomach in a hard knot. “Taking a little longer than I thought” is the sweat on his palm, the phone slipping so he just catches it against his collarbone. “You can make do with what I left, right?” beats his heart hard enough he can see his ribs vibrating with the force of it. 

“We’re fine,” roughens his throat, makes his voice hoarse. “Take your time” tightens around his neck and he hangs up before anyone hears him gasp for air. 

“Dean?” He inhaled through his nose, past the noose of words, spins around to face his brother with the wall intact. 

_“Fear is vulnerability. If I can see it, so can everything else.”_

“Just a few more days, Sammy,” he says and grins so Sam won’t see the panicked clench of his teeth, the numbers and plans spinning behind his eyes. “Guess you’re stuck with me a while longer.” 

“It’s _Sam,_ ” Sam insists because apparently no teenager worth his salt has a two-syllable name anymore, and Dean remembers that Sam has hit thirteen and a growth spurt since the last time this happened. Remembers that while Sammy ate plenty, _Sam_ eats like a fucking horse, and they have no food left at all because Dad was supposed to be back today. Remembers that he has less than ten bucks left in his wallet, including the emergency cash he dipped into a week ago, and that _Sam_ has some kind of moral objection to eating peanut butter for more than two meals each day. 

Picking up his jacket to leave, he allows himself a moment to be grateful for the anxiety twisting his stomach because that’s just one less mouth to feed. 

_“You’ve got to have a plan. Don’t go in half-cocked. You’ll get someone killed.”_

He sits on the bench with the sale ads, tears out the coupons he needs, scratches out a plan in the margin of the paper with tip of a pen that has run out of ink. “Just a few more days” always means at least four days but not more than seven, but he plans for a week just in case. Boxed macaroni is two for a dollar, store brand bread is a dollar for twenty slices, peanut butter is a dollar fifty, and he can get canned tuna with the rest. He does the math in his head, seven boxes and three cans and one jar and one loaf and eight and a half percent tax, fuck these blue-blood New England towns, comes to eight dollars and ninety-five cents, which is perfect, because he has nine dollars in his pocket. That’s a week of dinners, because Sam will eat a whole box of macaroni himself, and a week of lunches because he takes a sandwich and a half (it’s just the right amount, like he’s fucking goldilocks or something), and the tuna mixes in with the pasta because Sam has a thing for complete proteins or fatty acids or some shit Dean doesn’t remember. 

He wakes up hungry, cold, achy, shuffles Sam out the door and to school on time, thanking God Sam isn’t a breakfast person. At lunch, he flirts his way into a handful of fries or chips, a bite of a cookie, wants to try out Sam’s puppy dog eyes but it makes him feel like a stray begging for food. Each night he steals a couple bites of Sam’s macaroni, pre-tuna because that stuff is disgusting, and tells Sam he already ate, will eat later, had a big lunch, is too tired. Goes to bed hungry, cold, achy, counting in his head the slices of bread, the boxes of pasta, tablespoons of peanut butter, breathing through the emptiness of his stomach. 

_“Hunting is control. You have to be in control, always. If you aren’t, you’re dead.”_

Dean is in control. He will prove this time that he can take care of everything. It doesn’t have to be like all the other times, the hunger leading into eating, the eating devolving into the reason Dad hadn’t left them alone for more than a day or two in the last few months. 

If Dad can be gone for weeks on end hunting, doing something important, Dean can handle taking care of Sam. He can handle this one simple thing, and maybe when Dad gets back and sees that Dean can do this, maybe he’ll trust Dean again. Maybe Dean will finally be able to erase the memory of the look in Dad’s eyes, the hurt and disappointment and anger in his eyes when he walked into the bathroom and Dean was on his knees, fingers down his throat. 

Dad never said anything about it, just quietly took them to Bobby’s and only took short jobs, hung around more, especially after meals. Dean never said anything about it either, but that was the last time he threw up. He started to, once, because _“Be ready, all the time. Evil sons of bitches don’t show up on a schedule”_ and how could he be ready with his stomach so full, slowing him down? But he remembered Dad’s face, the echo of that door closing, and he walked back out of the bathroom and worked on cars all afternoon. 

Dean wakes up on the seventh day so worried he thinks he could throw up the absolutely nothing in his stomach without even trying. Because Dad should have been back, because the hunt is taking too long, because Dad hasn’t called, because they will be out of food by tonight, because he only has fifteen cents in his wallet. 

It’s Halloween today, he remembers, but his stomach is in knots and his heart is in his throat and even though he hasn’t had more than a mouthful of food at a time in a week, he can’t eat a single piece of the free candy. He pockets it to give to Sam, because even teenagers with one-syllable names like Halloween candy. 

“Why are you giving this to me?” Sam asks suspiciously, and Dean rolls his eyes. Like he starved all week so Sam could eat, just to poison him? 

“Because I’m an awesome brother,” he says instead. “If you don’t want it, give it back.” He makes a grab for it, an exaggerated lunge just for show and Sam dodges, pocketing all but one piece, which he unwraps and shoves in his mouth. Through sticky chocolate, Sam chatters about school and how his Spanish class had a party and somewhere on the line exits onto some weird tangent about how maybe they won’t learn about pilgrims in November because they already finished colonial times or something, Dean isn’t really listening, barely feels Sam tugging at his pocket when they round the corner and he sees the Impala, thinks she has never looked prettier than she does right now. 

Dad is inside, a feast’s worth of takeout boxes spread across the table and he grins at them. “Hey, boys. Hungry?” and it’s like a chasm opens up inside Dean, every meal he didn’t eat all week an empty space inside him and he thinks he could eat all of this and more and he starts to panic. 

Sam pushes past where Dean has frozen halfway in the door, and sits at the table, pulling a container to him enthusiastically. “Starving. I was getting so sick of macaroni.” 

Dean steps inside and closes the door, cautiously sits at the table, not yet reaching for anything. Dad sits across from him, pushes one of the containers at him and opens his own. “Yeah, I noticed there wasn’t much food,” Dad says around a mouthful of burger and Dean swallows hard as he catches Dad’s eye. _Hurt and disappointment and anger._

Dean eats mechanically, slowly, barely tasting his food, long pauses between each bite, willing the chasm in his stomach to shrink. 

Dad and Sam are done before Dean has finished even half of what is in his container, but he pushes it away, because if he takes one more bite he won’t be able to stop himself from finishing everything, from eating until it hurts, and Dad is already looking at him with the _hurt and disappointment and anger_ he remembers even though he’s trying so hard. 

“You okay, Deano?” Dad is staring at him, hard, scrutinizing, and Dean forces a nod, muscles so tight he’s almost shaking. Dad nods, shortly, looks away, reaches down to a bag next to the table, pulls it up to set it in the middle. Halloween candy. Several pounds of it. Dean almost throws up right there. 

He should have been prepared for something like this, because Dad’s not going to just forget how Dean fucked up just because it’s been a couple months. A test, to see if Dean really is done fucking up. 

_“You’re training. Do it over again. Ten times the right way for every time you mess up. How will you do it right when it matters if you can’t do it right now?”_

Dad used to bring candy after every hunt, a down payment on Sam’s upset at not being normal, at being left, at missing his Dad, because even teenagers can be bought off with candy. Dad would bring them something normal, something to make up for the things they did without, watched them eat the candy with a small smile like the payment was working, like he had convinced them the world was okay again just for a moment. Dad never smiled like the world was okay and Dean would unwrap piece after piece just to watch that smile, this moment of being a normal family with kids who eat candy and parents who like to see their kids happy. Piece after piece until his stomach was achingly full, until he remembered _“Hunters have to be in shape. You never know when you’ll have to run for your life.”_

Sam is eating candy and Dad is watching Dean stare at it, waiting for Dean to fail this test because he can’t control himself and _hunting is control_ but he can still taste the candy coming back up, can’t possibly just swallow one piece because his hunger is gravity and everything is drawn to the emptiness. 

“You okay, Dean?” Dad says gruffly. 

“Had a big lunch,” he lies and immediately wishes he hadn’t because he knows what Dad must be thinking now, that he’s refusing the test because he already failed. 

“Sammy, why don’t you take your candy and go do your homework in your room?” Dad says, never moving his eyes from Dean. 

Sam mutters something with _“Sam”_ being the only distinct word, but obediently shoulders his bag and grabs another handful of candy, shuffles to the bedroom of the tiny apartment and closes the door. 

Dad moves to the chair next to Dean’s, leaning in, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. “Dean?” 

Dean can feel himself shaking, his chest tight and he can’t breathe quite enough, can’t make himself look at Dad, just stares at the candy and remembers it coming back up, stares and remembers how easy it is to be hungry when Sam needs the food, how hard it is when he doesn’t have to choose between Sam and himself 

“Dean, look at me.” It’s that ordering voice and he can’t help but snap to attention, eyes fixed on his father’s. 

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?” 

“No, sir,” he says softly, shaking his head. “Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Something’s wrong,” John insists. “Look at you. You’re pale, you’ve lost weight…” His eyes harden suddenly. “Dean, have you been eating?” 

“What?” Dean asks, startled. 

“Have you been eating?” John repeats, his giving orders voice back and Dean forces himself to focus. 

“I haven’t been eating too much, sir,” he says and pauses, trying to find words for enough to get by but not enough to throw up, without those words because they don’t talk about this. 

Dad follows Dean’s eyes back to the bag of candy and realization sweeps his features. “Oh, shit. Dean. I didn’t –” He grabs the bag, ties the top, removes it from the table, sets it somewhere out of Dean’s sight. He grabs both of Dean’s shoulders, forces Dean to look at him. “You’re worried about…” he pauses, then forces himself to continue “relapsing?” 

Dean nods almost imperceptibly. 

“You haven’t been eating,” Dad says and it isn’t a question, but Dean tries to answer anyway. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” he mumbles. “I didn’t plan well enough, we didn’t have enough left this week. I didn’t want Sam to be hungry.” 

“Jesus, Dean, why didn’t you tell me?” Dad drops his hands from Dean’s shoulders and Dean folds in on himself just a little. 

“The hunt,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to fuck everything up just because I couldn’t –”

“I should have planned better,” Dad cuts him off. “Should’ve realized how long this job would take, left you more.” 

_“You’ve got to have a plan. Don’t go in half-cocked. You’ll get someone killed.”_

“Your blood sugar’s got to be seriously fucked,” Dad says. “Think you can eat a little more of this?” He taps the top of the container Dean had picked at earlier. 

Dean shakes his head because he’s weak and dizzy and so, so hungry and if he starts, he won’t be able to stop and he can’t do that in front of Dad. 

“Just this box. I won’t let you go overboard,” Dad promises and Dean nods, opens the container. He still eats slowly, Dad watching him, forcing his heart to slow, the panic to ease, and it’s easier with every bite. 

_“Hunting is control. You have to be in control, always. If you aren’t, you’re dead.”_

“You can’t do this,” Dad says, voice rough and Dean thinks _hurt and disappointment and anger,_ but Dad isn’t looking at him at all. “You can’t starve. What if something showed up and you hadn’t eaten for days. You think you’re going to fight it off?” 

_Hunters have to be in shape. You never know when you’ll have to run for your life.”_

Dean shakes his head. “I’m sorry, sir.” 

“Tell me, next time, okay?” Dad says, patting him on the shoulder and standing up. “Don’t be afraid.” 

_“Fear is vulnerability. If I can see it, so can everything else.”_

Dean nods, but Dad is done with the conversation, has moved over to the couch, back turned to Dean. Dean stands, makes his way to the bedroom while Dad flips through channels, sprawls across the bed closest to the door. Sam doesn’t even look up from his book. 

Dean starts to roll over, but feels the shape of something in his jacket pocket, slips his hand in and comes out with a single Reese’s peanut butter cup, remembers the tug at his pocket when Sam tried to sneakily slip something in on the walk home. He unwraps the candy, holds it in his hand for a long moment. 

_“You’re training. Do it over again. Ten times the right way for every time you mess up. How will you do it right when it matters if you can’t do it right now?”_

He eats the Reese’s cup slowly, in no less than five bites. And he listens to Sam flipping pages and Dad flipping channels and feels the warmth of food in his stomach and he doesn’t feel sick at all.


	2. All the Empty Spaces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After writing Rules for Hunting, nytekit requested "a future companion piece to this where the urge comes back or something, but this time Sam is the one that's there (since John is dead), and he doesn't remember Dean ever having this problem before." So...John isn't dead, but the urge has certainly come back (and then some) and Sam knows nothing about it. Yet.

John’s halfway through the bottle of Jack when Dean slips back into the motel room, the smell of desperation and bus station clinging to his clothes. Neither of them says a word as Dean rummages through his duffle, rooting around until he comes up with a two pound bag of peanut M&Ms, and John doesn’t even look up when Dean steps over the salt line and closes the door behind him.  
  
Dean sits in the Impala, ramrod straight, staring through the windshield, knuckles white where he grips the bottom of the steering wheel. He breathes long and slow because there’s too much space in the world. There’s an empty floorboard in the backseat, where his brother’s ginormous backpack should sit, cold motionless air in the passenger seat. There’s an extra half-inch of room between his foot and the gas pedal where he’s always kept the seat pushed back just farther than is comfortable so those stupid gangly legs weren’t cramped. Dean reaches for the lever and slides the bench seat incrementally forward but instead of feeling like he fits again, he just remembers the empty space behind him where he and Sam grew up until they grew apart.  
  
The M&Ms sit where Sam should, neatly in the passenger seat without taking up any real space. He opens the bag and shoves a fistful into his mouth, almost chokes because there isn’t enough space for all of this. As soon as he swallows, he’s pushing more candy into his mouth, jaw aching with the work of all this chewing, and this wasn’t what he wanted at all, but his wallet is empty because he secretly slipped all his cash into Sam’s pocket as he boarded a bus so he could be something other than Dean’s brother.  
  
Hundreds of Technicolor candies don’t fill the Sam-space in Dean any more than they filled the Sam-space in the Impala and he suddenly doesn’t want them to. John doesn’t say anything when Dean drags himself back inside, hand clutching his overfull stomach, but the whiskey is three quarters gone. And when he comes back from the bathroom, face pale, body trembling, hollow once more, and finds his dad staring at an empty bottle, Dean knows Dad knows about empty spaces too.  
  
John meets his eyes. “How ‘bout we go to Bobby’s for a little while?”  
  
In the mornings, he trains, stomach empty and heart pounding between gunshots. In the afternoons, he works on Bobby’s cars, fits every piece where it should go, tightens it down to stay, fixes them up to be perfect so they can drive away. In the evenings, they eat dinner and they all sit together like they’re a real family, two widowers and a bulimic, like some parody of a sitcom, until someone says something about a drink. Dad gets silently wasted, Dean drinks enough to throw up, and Bobby plies them both with aspirin and water because he’s the only one sober enough.  
  
They stay at Bobby’s until Dean hasn’t throw up in three days, from alcohol or anything else, and then Dad says there’s a hunt and the empty spaces start to fill up.  
  
It’s easier after that, until it isn’t. Birthdays. November. The times Sam drunk dials. The first time Dean hunts solo. The first time he gets sick and there’s no one around to throw the bottle of Tylenol at him and call him a stupid jerk. Sometimes it’s easy, and other times the empty spaces get emptier and he fills them again but nothing is ever the right size and he always throws up.  
  
Dean never says anything about it. He hides as much as he can, just hunts and drinks and sleeps and doesn’t really eat until he can do nothing else. Never eats in front of John, never throws up anywhere near, but John always somehow knows. Dean wants to stop, can go weeks, even, but somewhere between weeks and never again his brain short-circuits. Hunters never plan long-term.  
  
John doesn’t say much about it either, and usually it’s only once in a while. If he throws up enough that his knuckles stay abrasion-red, John says something about needing to see Bobby. Then John actually stays around, especially after meals, and Dean fixes his aim and fixes his cars and fixes himself. Sometimes Bobby tries to talk, but they all know what and why and how and there’s not much more to say.  
  
-SPN-  
  
The first time John doesn’t pick up, Dean assumes he’s still hunting. The second time, he figures the same.  
  
Four days and fifteen phone calls later, he’s on his way to Palo Alto, fear filling those empty spaces so tightly he can’t even think about food.  
  
Three days after pulling Sam from a fire, Sam is starting to pull himself together and Dean is starting to fall apart. Because Sam needs him here and Dad needs them to help and Dean hasn’t eaten since a candy bar in Jericho and Sam’s noticed. So they go out and Dean eats the largest burger he can find, a ton of fries, and even though he already feels sick, he eats the other half of Sam’s sandwich, the rest of his fries, finishes off another beer. And then he throws some bills on the table and tells Sam he has to hit the head, meet him by the car.  
  
There are people in the restroom and there’s nothing Dean hates more than that “hey, man, you okay” query from unfamiliar voices, so he uses the back exit of the bar, escapes into the darkest area of the parking lot behind the bar. He rests one hand against the back wall, doubled over, fingers of the other hand firmly down his throat, and tries to be as quiet as possible. But he’s obviously not quiet enough because he doesn’t hear the grate of gravel under sneakers until it’s far too late.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
He drops his hand, rides out the dry heaving, trying to think past the pounding of his pulse and the sinking of his stomach and the newly, cleanly empty spaces filling up with fear. A large hand rests gently on his back and he spits one more time and straightens up, turning to look at his brother.  
  
Sam’s eyebrows are drawn together, his stupid floppy hair in his eyes, his mouth opening and closing like words should be coming out but there’s nothing but silence and empty space between them. Dean walks straight through the space, brushes past Sam and gets into the car. He sits alone for a couple minutes, staring through the windshield, the world pressing in and making him feel small. And it’s only when Sam finally sits next to him that he can breathe at all.  
  
Sam doesn’t say anything and Dean just drives. It’s dark outside, they’ve been driving all day, but there’s an itch under his skin, a darkness behind his eyes, and he needs to get as far away as possible.  
  
“Is this about Dad?” The question is so quiet, under the noise of the road and the hum of blood in his veins and breath in his lungs and he doesn’t say anything back, just shakes his head shortly and looks straight ahead.  
  
Because it isn’t Dad. It isn’t Dad right now any more than it was Sam when Sam was gone. It’s the empty space, the time he should be obeying orders, cleaning guns, running laps so Dad would know he’s ready. It’s the fact that he’s John’s son and Sam’s brother and a monster’s hunter and a civilian’s protector. Because the problem with being a son is that there has to be a father, and when Dad isn’t here, Dean isn’t anything at all, just a brother and a hunter and a protector surrounding the space where “son” should be. Because everything he is depends on how they need him to be, and that makes him need more than they ever could.  
  
Sam is just Sam, he’s shown everyone he doesn't need to be a son or a brother or anything else because he’s smart and strong and capable on his own. And so he doesn’t understand.  
  
“This isn’t the first time, huh?” Sam asks even though it isn’t really a question. Dean’s hands shake enough he has to tighten his grip on the wheel and then the wheel shakes so he pulls over, shuts off the engine.  
  
“Does Dad know?” He asks it loud, aggressive, already angry because there isn’t a right answer. Dean knows what Sam will think, either Dad knew and let it happen, or Dad was oblivious and either way it’s all Dad’s fault.  
  
“It’s not his fault, Sam,” Dean says instead. “He helped as much as he could.”  
  
“Sounds like it’s been going on a while,” Sam finally says and it’s forcefully casual. He finally looks over at Dean and Dean looks away. “Was it when I…While I was gone?”  
  
“Sometimes. Sometimes before that too.”  
  
“What?” Sam shifts in his seat until he’s turned toward Dean, staring at him intently. “How long?”  
  
“Just…a while,” Dean mutters. He stretches his legs, thinks about getting out of the car, thinks about leaving this whole thing behind.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“You were twelve.” He does get out of the car now, closes the door and leans against it, elbows resting on the top of the car, head in his hands because he doesn’t want to see Sam’s face. He’s got to be planning to leave now, forget finding Dad or helping Dean, because this is exactly why he left. Because their family is fucked up,  _Dean_  is fucked up, and Dean can’t even blame him. He’d leave too, if he could.  
  
He hears the creak of the passenger side door and doesn’t even look up to say, “You can take the car if you want. Or I can take you to a bus station. Your choice.”  
  
He hears Sam sigh, loudly, pointedly. “I’m not leaving, Dean.” The grit of gravel under sneakers yet again, and Sam is next to him, leaning against the car and staring out into the black, at all the empty space and Dean thinks maybe Sam understands too.  
  
“Maybe we should take a break for a while,” Sam suggests.  
  
Dean shakes his head. “We need to find Dad.”  
  
“We need to get you better,” Sam counters.  
  
“We get Dad back and I will be better.”  
  
“That’s not a solution,” Sam argues. “You can’t do this every time things aren’t going well!”  
  
Dean straightens up, glares at his brother. “It’s not something I’m doing, okay, Sam? It just happens, and I can’t –” He breaks off, turns away, kicking loosely at a rock, watches as it skitters off the edge of the pavement.  
  
“Look, I’m sorry,” Sam says behind him, voice soft and placating. “I didn’t mean that.”  
  
“I know it’s fucked up, okay? I know.” And the sick thing is that he wants to do it right now, to eat until it  _hurts_  and then it throw it up because just for a second it drowns out everything else. He’s shaking again, weak, and he remembers that before tonight he hadn’t eaten for days and he doesn’t have anything left in him now to deal with Sam knowing how fucked up he is.  
  
“Dean. Dean!” Sam is holding him up, reaching to open the door of the car, and then he’s pushing Dean down to sit on the backseat, head between his knees, staring at the pavement between his boots.  
  
“You can’t do this, Dean,” Sam says, and he’s holding onto Dean’s shoulder so hard it almost hurts.  
  
Dean shrugs a little and Sam lets go, lets him sit up, hands him a bottle of water. He takes a couple of sips, breathes deeply through his nose.  
  
“What do you need me to do?” Sam asks, still kneeling in front of him so he’s at Dean’s eye-level. “How do I help you?”  
  
Dean starts to shake his head because he shouldn’t need this, Sam doesn’t need this, and Sam grabs his shoulder again, shakes him. “Don’t give me that. What did Dad do? What do you need?”  
  
Dean swallows hard, makes himself focus on Sam, on breathing and his heart beating and Sam here in front of him, here and real and needing him to say something. “He used to make sure I ate.” His voice is rough, he hears the defeat in it and hates it.  
  
Sam nods. “I noticed you hadn’t been eating. Okay. Make sure you eat. Because…you lose control if you get too hungry? And you don't eat because you're afraid you'll lose control?” Dean nods and Sam’s eyes widen suddenly. “Jesus. All those times when you said you weren’t hungry, when Dad was gone–”  
  
Dean looks away, and Sam’s grip on his shoulder tightens. “Were you…Dean, were you not eating so I could?” Of course Sam would work it out, got himself a fucking full-ride to Stanford, of course he can figure out something as simple as Dean. “And you’d eat when Dad came back and you’d....Fuck.”  
  
Sam stands up, turns away, combing his fingers through his hair, pacing a few feet and then coming back to where Dean is still hunched on the back seat of the Impala, still shaking and so fucking tired, drained, like there’s nothing left to give.  
  
“What else?” Sam says and Dean can hear the quake in his voice, the anger thrumming just under the surface.  
  
“Just…Don’t let me eat too much. Don’t let me throw up.” And if only it were that easy, he thinks, but he knows it isn’t. He looks up at Sam and he can see meal plans and schedules and anger at their father spinning behind his eyes, but he feels the knot in his stomach ease all the same because it’s not just him.  _Hunting is control_  his Dad always used to say, but he hadn’t been in control in years. Maybe Sam could be. Maybe he can eat if he knows Sam is watching, because it's  _Sam._  Sam who grew up and grew apart, Sam who left, and then Sam who came back. And Dean was a son, brother, hunter, protector, and then he wasn't a brother anymore, and now he's not a son, but he can still be this.  
  
“Okay,” Sam says finally. “Okay. Just. Just tell me if you’re…you know. Just tell me. We’ll figure it out.”  
  
They’ll figure it out. So they get back in the car and Dean thinks of the empty road and the empty night and the empty space inside. And then glances over, sees the ginormous backpack taking up the floorboard, and Sam folded into the front seat, sees those stupid gangly legs and feels that extra half-inch of stretch to reach the gas pedal and thinks that there are a lot of empty spaces, but there are a lot of full ones too.


	3. Proof of Existence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s so human, so pathetically human that he can’t stop himself from doing it. Post-Hell Dean has all the old issues and more.

_Wake up. Dig out of a grave. Water. Check scars. Eat. Throw up. Call Sam. Call Bobby._  
  
Dean makes the list just after the  _wake up_  stage, before even fumbling for the lighter he knows will be in his pocket. This isn’t his first wake up call.  
  
He’s dug out of his own grave a lot. Always in the same place in the middle of nowhere with a crooked little cross at the head, and it always gives him that little twitch of nostalgia. A cross is a place to be crucified, and he’s been through that enough it got boring, but sometimes he misses it because those were the early days, back when he didn’t know how bad things could really get.  
  
Water is the first reality check. If it is cool and sweet and tastes just a little bit off since it doesn’t taste like sulfur, he gets a little pang of hope mixed with the sinking in his stomach.  _It could be real this time_  he refuses to think, because he knows water really means a more intricate agony.  
  
The second reality check is for scars. If he doesn’t have any, he’s either really actually alive this time by some esoteric miracle, or he’s well and truly fucked. He pulls his shirt up and his stomach is smooth and flat and he can see it move with his breath, and fuck, but Alastair put a lot of work into this. Alastair is really more into disassembling than creating, and he’s done a remarkably patient job.  
  
The hitch in his plan is the handprint on his shoulder, and he’s not sure what to make of it.  _It’s real this time_  he won’t let himself think, but this is certainly different. This is probably the point in the story where he branches from the usual to go down a new path, with a new trove of tortures waiting at the end.  
  
He does the third reality check anyway. He eats the candy bar and it doesn’t taste like sulfur or charred flesh or congealed blood, so he finishes it and has another, while he packs up a bag full of snacks because even though  _this is absolutely not real this time,_  his stupid body is on autopilot like it’s actually alive and wants to keep being that way.  
  
The earsplitting screeching is a new touch, but the glass raining down on top of him is remarkably cool and barely pricks his skin and _c’mon you bastard, I’m waiting_  because he’s been through this routine so many times and it’s never anything but set up for a fall.  
  
The fourth check. He eats two more candy bars, then shoves his fingers down his throat while he leans against the side of the ramshackle building. His stomach clenches, heaves, and nothing happens, and then all of a sudden it does, candy and water coming out in reverse and splattering on his boots and he fucking wants to do it all over again because this shit is real.  
  
Now he can call Sam, and he dials, the phony chirp of each tone echoing in his ear, and he almost isn’t afraid that Alastair’s voice will answer. Almost.  
  
It’s the phone lady, that automated female voice that answers all the calls that won’t go through, and he wants to cry because even though the phone lady isn’t human, she’s not a demon, and for that, he could marry her.  
  
He calls Bobby and Bobby doesn’t believe he’s alive, but that’s okay, because he didn’t either, not at first, and he drives hundreds of miles, stops every fifty to throw up just to believe it all over again. He stands in Bobby’s house. He slices himself with silver and it doesn’t burn. He’s doused in sweet, sulfur-free water and there’s no hiss or steam or anything and if a couple of quick tears mix in with that holy water, no one has to know.  
  
Dean showers, tracks Sam’s phone, eats dinner with Bobby, and then he throws up again just to remind himself that this time he’s really human.  
  
**-SPN-**  
  
Sam is so different, so much bigger and stronger and harder around the edges, and he fairly crushes Dean when they hug, but Dean holds on just as tight, hooking his chin over Sam’s shoulder and feeling his little brother breathe.  
  
In the next moment, Sam is pulling the amulet over his head, placing it so gently in Dean’s palm that it doesn’t feel real. It settles on his chest, a delicate weight against his sternum and he loves it for not being a crushing blow.  
  
Sam is careful like that now, like he knows he’s so much bigger than Dean, but it’s more than that. Like Dean is this fragile little thing that Sam could break if he jostles him or says the wrong thing. Those goddamn puppy dog eyes are three-quarters of Sam’s personal style nowadays, at least when he’s looking at his brother.  
  
Dean hates it, hates how strong and determined and fucking powerful Sam is, because he’s going the wrong way and Dean wants to tell him it’s okay to be soft and weak and human and uncertain. That there are mountains of skull and bone, cemented with brain, and the only way not to shatter on the all the evil in the world is to be soft enough to withstand, to be human enough to fall and tumble down to the depths and then get back up.  
  
He doesn’t want Sam to know Hell, though, so he keeps his mouth shut.  
  
Except at night when Sam is asleep or gone or anywhere else, and then he throws up as much as he can because his renewed body is hard and strong and undamaged. He misses the twinge in his back and the shoulder that popped out and the scar at the hollow of his throat where he almost died but didn’t. He misses the things he thought were weak, because now he feels so strong and helpless.  
  
**-SPN-**  
  
He couldn’t throw up in Hell, no matter how hard he tried. Alastair forced his own raw fat down his throat, poured bile and spinal fluid and liquefied eyes directly into his stomach and it stayed as long as it wanted to. If Alastair wanted it back, he pulled Dean’s stomach out through his mouth, and took it.  
  
It’s so human, so pathetically human that he can’t stop himself from doing it. That he can feel empty and fill that space. That he can feel full and empty it. That none of his body is trapped on wires and hooks, twisting and leaping into the fire at anyone’s will but his own.  
  
He throws up every morning, goes from nightmare to heaving in less than five seconds, and when he’s done he’s calm and comfortable in his skin again, and it’s all okay.  
  
“Dean,” his brother said the first few times it happened, the world trailing into nothing, puppy dog eyes taking up Sam’s whole face. Sam patted him on the back and gave him water and comfort and asked if he wanted to stay at the motel, sleep,  _should I drive, can I get you anything, please just let me help._  
  
Dean didn’t know how to say that this was all the help he needed, so he didn’t say anything, just shrugged it off and then Sam stopped asking and Dean wished he could shrug it back on, like the warm comfort of a hoodie, but nothing of Sam’s really fits the same way anymore.  
  
**-SPN-**  
  
Sam has pulled him out of this particular fire several times already.  
  
They have a routine. Dean makes himself another list.  
  
_Throw up until it stops feeling better. Then throw up until there’s blood. When there’s blood, tell Sam._  
  
Sam makes the list from there. It usually involves set eating times, activities after meals. It involves Sam choosing food for Dean, Sam giving him gum after every meal to help him forget he ate. It involves Dean bitching that he’s not a child and then doing as he’s told, Dean doing things back for Sam like always getting coffee and his favorite candy and sometimes letting him play girly emo crap on the motel radios when he’s sure Baby can’t hear the blasphemy.  
  
This time the order is all wrong. He throws up to feel better, but it never stops feeling better. And then there’s blood, but it’s just a little. Then there’s blood and it’s more than a little, but it still feels better, so fuck it, it’s not time to tell Sam.  
  
There used to be an intermediate step between seeing blood and telling Sam.  _Sam steps in._  Sam tells Dean he knows what’s going on, tells Dean he’s going to help, tells Dean it’s going to be okay without actually using those words. And then Dean tells Sam that there may have been blood but don’t make a big thing about it, bitch.  
  
Dean’s waiting for Sam to step in. Sam steps out. Out of the motel room, out of the Impala, out of Dean’s life, slowly but surely.  
  
Dean doesn’t blame him. He doesn’t like this dance they do, and he may be stuck with it, but Sam certainly isn’t.  
  
**-SPN-**  
  
They’re at Bobby’s for a few days because Baby needs some love and attention, Dean needs to keep Sam away from Ruby, Sam needs to borrow a book, and Bobby needs someone to sleep on his couch and drink his beer.  
  
Bobby finds Dean sitting on his ass in the dirt, leaning against Baby’s front tire, shaking like he might fly apart. He doesn’t even have the decency to fake surprise.  
  
But he does sit down on the dusty earth next to Dean and hand him a plate holding a sandwich, potato salad and even some carrots. The kind of lunch he used to eat at Bobby’s as a kid, out here on this very earth, face and clothes streaked with dirt and grease, but hands cleaned to Bobby’s exacting specifications.  
  
“Haven’t seen you eat in three days,” Bobby says. He’s looking out across the yard, eyeing the occasional car, but never looking at Dean.  
  
“Been a while, I guess,” Dean says, like he doesn’t know exactly the last time he ate and puked.  
  
“Looking kind of skinny,” Bobby says, still not quite looking at Dean.  
  
Dean doesn’t know what to say. There’s no pretending with Bobby, and what is there to say when you both already know? He picks up a carrot stick and twists it in his fingers.  
  
Rumsfeld peers around the fender of the Impala, eyes Dean’s plate, then plants himself right in front of Dean, nose an inch from the plate.  
  
“You should eat that, ‘fore Rumsfeld here eats it and you,” Bobby says idly. Dean snorts and the dog licks half of his own face in a show of obvious desire.  
  
It takes almost an hour, but Dean finishes his plate, Bobby sitting shoulder to shoulder with him the whole time. Dean tosses the last bite of sandwich to Rumsfeld and wipes his hands on his jeans. The dog makes a sort of vacuuming noise like he’s inhaling the food and Dean is a little jealous of just how easy eating could be.  
  
“Don’t tell Sam.”  
  
“He doesn’t know?” Bobby looks at Dean and raises his eyebrows. Dean shakes his head.  
  
“We’ve got a lot of other shit going on that’s more important than me being a fuck-up.”  
  
It’s Bobby’s turn to shake his head. “Kid, you been through enough, I’d be more worried if you weren’t a little fucked up.”  
  
**-SPN-**  
  
It’s more than a little blood.  
  
Kneeling in the grimy bathroom of their latest motel room, middle of the day but Sam is never fucking here anyway, and it’s more than a little blood.  
  
It’s actually kind of more than more than a little blood. It might be, Dean thinks, more like a lot of blood.  
  
A lot of blood and an intense pain somewhere between his heart and his stomach, like a cross between the times Alastair tied his esophagus in a bow and the times he ripped it out entirely.  
  
He’s still puking blood, everything red, but starting to fade to black at the edges, the blood not so colourful, his heart in his ears but not nearly as loud as it should be.  
  
There’s warm, wet blood trailing down his chin and soaking into his shirt as he falls back onto the tile, his head knocking against the floor with a thud that lets a little white override the red for a moment.  
  
He chokes a little, gargles thick red, coughs, gags some more. Wheezes out a breath that sounds a little like “Cas,” and inhales a sharp breath that sounds like “help.”  
  
And the angel is there, his face upside down over Dean’s where he crouches at the bathroom door, one hand coming toward him to touch his forehead and it burns a little, like the handprint on his shoulder, the alternate path, and Dean blinks his eyes open to see no red at all.  
  
He struggles to sit, his back twinging just a little, and lurches his way up to standing. His stomach feels funny, like there’s still blood in it. Maybe blood, maybe something else, and either way he wants it  _out_  and fuck, he’s so far over his head.  
  
“Dean,” Cas says, this solemn, omniscient voice and Dean closes his eyes and pictures the steps in his head  _wake up, dig, water, check, eat, throw up_  like just by thinking hard enough he can take all of this back, start over. When he opens his eyes, Cas is still standing there, impenetrable blue stare in place.  
  
Dean pushes past him and sits on the corner of the bed, head in his hands, and Cas sits in a chair opposite him, just watching.  
  
“It’s just something I do, Cas,” he finally says.  
  
“I know,” the angel says. “But I do not understand.”  
  
“What’s to understand?” Dean says roughly. “I’m a pathetic fuck-up and I throw up to feel better. It’s stupid.”  
  
Cas frowns, tilts his head forward a little, looking more stern. “I repaired your body,” he says. “I did not repair it for you to keep hurting yourself.”  
  
Dean’s trembling, his whole body shivering there on the edge of an unfamiliar bed in a motel whose name he forgot and he suddenly very powerfully just wants to go home, just go where things actually make sense, and he shakes even harder when he realizes the only place he can think of is Hell.  
  
Cas appears in an instant at his side, one hand resting lightly on his back, warm and familiar though he can count on one hand the number of times the angel has touched him.  
  
“It’s human,” Dean says and thinks maybe Cas will leave it alone, will believe that all humans do this, that he won’t realize what Dean really means. But angels are actually pretty fucking perceptive when they want to be.  
  
“You have been saved, Dean,” Cas says. “I raised you, repaired you, restored you. You have been chosen for great things, none of them demonic.”  
  
Dean shrugs just a little, and Cas shifts his hand, fits it over the scar on Dean’s shoulder, the flesh heating just more than would be natural, like Cas is applying a tiny bit of grace to an old wound. The alternate path, the first difference in a long line of the same old anguish.  
  
“My hand left a mark on you,” Cas murmurs, as the flesh continues to warm. “Because you are mortal, delicately-made, because you were not meant to withstand this type of power.” He pauses, the scar under his hand almost hot enough to burn again before he speaks. “Because you are human.”  
  
Cas’ hand drops from his shoulder and Dean feels the warmth dissipate, not out into the room, but through his body.  
  
“You are special, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, standing up. “You don’t need this anymore.”  
  
And he’s gone.  
  
**-SPN-**  
  
Sam somehow knows. He’s there, reminding Dean to eat, making him watch a whole movie after dinner, or drive until he’s sure it’s too late to be sick. He doesn’t say anything about it, but sometimes he shakes his head when he catches sight of Dean’s ribs.  
  
There are no puppy dog eyes, no earnest offerings of peanut M &Ms and promises that it will be okay.  
  
Dean holds up his end too. Coffee. Sam’s foods. Sam gets to pick the music. Dean toys with the idea of reinstalling that iPod jack, but even his newly repaired heart can’t take it.  
  
There aren’t any mutterings of  _bitch_  or  _jerk_  and Sam still leaves every night, but now it’s after the movie. He still thinks Dean doesn’t know.  
  
None of it quite fits anymore. His skin itches and he needs and he sometimes smells sulfur just driving down the highway, windows up and music pounding, and he’s afraid it could be him.  
  
But Dean has something new, something to hem him in so he fits in his world again.  
  
He makes a new list.  
  
_Wake up. Water. Check scars. Eat._  
  



	4. The Other Half of the Equation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's everything he ever thought he wanted. But it hurts, more than he can stand, in this soft, comfortable, padded life when he’s all broken, jagged edges.
> 
>  
> 
> “If you have a sister and she dies, do you stop saying you have one? Or are you always a sister, even when the other half of the equation is gone?” - Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper

He wants to blame it on the beer. Too many beers on no food, of course he’d throw up and make a mess of Lisa’s bathroom after she was nice enough to take him in. She’d offered beer, weeks ago, and he had said yes now, yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes because Sam had said yes and now Dean had to say it too. To everything.   
  
Dean wants to blame the beer. Except she hadn’t given him any.   
  
She is so fucking nice about it, shushing his apologies and unbuttoning his shirt and jeans because his stupid fingers shake, pushing him into the shower while she cleans up his mess, scrubs everything with bleach so it all gives way to perfect white.   
  
He watches it through steaming glass, pictures pouring bleach on himself, scouring with Brillo pads, scraping off all the bits of skin that have ever been covered in vomit and dirt and blood and guilt until all that’s left is perfect white bone.   
  
Lisa opens the glass door and says something, something startled and a little scolding, turns the temperature down as the steam billows around her because his skin is red and raw. She pulls off her clothes and steps into the shower with him, and he should say something, something sexy or a joke or something and he opens his mouth to say but nothing comes out except a strange sort of hiccupping sound and he chokes on the water he hadn’t noticed running into his mouth.   
  
She pats him on the chest once, then she holds his hips, guides him around her until her back is to the spray and she can push him to gently sit on the weirdly wide ledge. Did normal people sit in the shower? Dean had never had the time. The longest shower he took, that steam shower way back when he’d just gotten Sam back, Sam banging on the door and saying they had to go, but they  _didn’t,_  it wasn’t like heaven was dragging them and hell was nipping at their heels. They hadn’t had to do it, but they did anyway, and look where Sam and Dean are now. Dead and wishing he were, respectively.   
  
Lisa shampoos his hair, with something that smells fruity and it reminds him of Sam, of his stupid hair and the shampoo he bought on sale regardless of how fucking girly it smelled. Sam eating fruit and salads and girly stuff. Sam buying Skittles once and picking out all the purple and green ones, putting them in an M&M bag and offering them when Dean was driving and wouldn’t look close, just to hear Dean swear in shock at the fruity taste. Sam, Sam,  _Sam._    
  
Lisa bundles him into bed, holds him tight, stroking her fingers through the squeaky-damp strands of his hair and it’s everything he thought he wanted.   
  
Turns out, he doesn’t want it at all.   
  
**-SPN-**  
  
It takes three days before Lisa insists he eat something, “anything, Dean, but you’ve got to have something.” She makes him scrambled eggs, he forces down three bites, but they get caught on the lump in his throat and he runs to the bathroom to cough them back up.   
  
She doesn’t insist for three more days. She says she can’t go to work if she doesn’t know he’ll be okay, so he wills his way through a bowl of cereal with Ben, Lucky Charms, like Sammy always liked,  _fuck,_  and he wills himself not to throw up. She kisses the side of Ben’s head, then the side of his, and promises to be back early.   
  
He takes Ben to school and doesn’t realize they forgot the kid’s lunch until they’re already there, because Dean hasn’t had to plan meals ahead like that since Sam left for college. He promises to bring Ben’s lunch before lunch time, waves as he hops out of the car.   
  
At Lisa’s house, he thinks of Lucky Charms and Sammy and brown bag lunches and  _Sam,_  and he goes to the bathroom and puts his fingers down his throat.   
  
And then he washes his hands three times, and makes the lasagna Sam used to ask for when Dean hustled a good night, all from scratch, and it takes him all morning because Sam used to chop the vegetables for him while he rolled out the pasta. But it’s done and he puts a slice in a Tupperware and puts it in a brown paper sack with an apple and a cookie and he drives to Ben’s school, gets there while the lasagna is still hot.   
  
And when Ben tells Lisa that night about the awesome lunch he had and says “Dean is the best,” Dean wonders why he can get all the unimportant stuff right, but he always failed at the one thing that mattered.   
  
**-SPN-**  
  
Dean fills out job applications, as many as he can find. He calls Bobby, asks for permission to write him as his employer for the last decade, give his phone number for a reference, because who the hell else would recommend Dean Winchester?   
  
Bobby agrees easily, asks how he’s getting on, and when Dean is done bullshitting him, Bobby asks to speak to Lisa. So Dean hands her the phone, doesn’t even explain who it is, and goes back to stirring the chili he’s making for tonight’s dinner, half-listening to Lisa’s end.   
  
“No, he’s…yes, exactly…not a lot, he goes days without eating…really? I had no idea…I’ll keep an eye…yes… I’ll tell him…okay, bye.”   
  
“Fuck!” Dean grunts and jumps back, chili sloshing over the side of the pot because he’s a fucking idiot and he zoned out, stirred too hard, and how fucking difficult is it to make a pot of chili? He swipes the hot liquid off his hand and onto his shirt, wincing at the blood colour of the scalded skin.   
  
Lisa grasps his hand gently to take a look, peers at the burn, and pulls him to the sink to run water over it. His hand still in her grip, eyes completely on her work, she says, “Bobby says I need to make sure you eat.”   
  
Dean mumbles something noncommittal, retrieves his hand and reaches to turn the heat down on the stove.   
  
She doesn’t push it, but she watches him during dinner so he forces down half a bowl of chili, half as much as she eats, but it’s something. And after dinner, she suggests they watch a movie, and the three of them crowd onto the couch, Ben at one end half-watching the movie and half playing with his phone, while Lisa and Dean take the other end, Lisa curled into his side. She trails her fingers over his stomach, over his ribs, over and over.   
  
Dean goes to bed with his belly warm and full, his heart so empty he thinks it could burst. It hurts, more than he can stand, in this soft, comfortable, padded life when he’s all broken, jagged edges.   
  
**-SPN-**  
  
Dean changes the oil in Lisa’s car, fixes her garbage disposal, cleans the corroded showerhead, snakes the clogged drains. One memorable weekend, he slices the palm of his hand open changing the filters on the heating system because it’s almost winter and those things were fucking nasty, and Lisa freaks out when she finds him stitching the cut closed with a fishing hook and dental floss. She doesn’t understand why he didn’t ask her to drive him to the hospital, and he tries to explain about no insurance and disinfecting with whiskey in rundown motel rooms.   
  
She reminds him that his construction job gave him health insurance, says he doesn’t have to live that way anymore. That things don’t have to hurt so much.   
  
He says okay and promises not to do it again, but he doesn’t understand, because it doesn’t hurt, not like it should, not like everything else does.   
  
Dean smiles and fixes things and cooks dinner and he never says what he’s thinking: that he wishes all of his problems could be solved with six floss stitches and some gauze.   
  
**-SPN-**    
  
It’s been so fucking cold out, snowing sometimes, and he had to buy a new coat. He doesn’t understand why Lisa keeps tutting over the amount of his laundry, why she hums in worry as he strips off three t-shirts and two flannels before climbing into bed with her. She runs nimble fingers over his jutting ribs, makes love to him slow and careful like she thinks he’s going to break.   
  
There are fingertip-sized bruises on his bones in the morning, across his ribs and the knife-edge of his hip bones, along one collarbone. Lisa presses a gentle kiss to each one, and he feels a couple of tears land hot and guilty on his neck.   
  
Dean makes them all breakfast, and he eats just for her, plans to throw up as soon as she leaves, but then she says her first class was canceled for snow. So they all bundle up, Lisa finds a scarf to wind around his neck, and they take Ben to school together, but then she doesn’t turn toward home.   
  
She takes him to a doctor who listens as she talks about how Dean lost his brother, he hardly eats, barely sleeps, symptom, symptom, symptom, all while Dean knocks the laces of his boot against the edge of the table just to hear the tiny click of the aglets on metal, and he uses those black plastic cones to poke holes in the paper table covering.   
  
He can’t quite engage in this world. He’s never been in this kind of doctor’s office before, the kind with a waiting room not full of people gushing blood or clutching broken bones. There’s a poster about diabetes on the wall, something about vaccinations. Sammy made him get all new vaccinations when he got back from Hell, somewhere between the third cold and the second flu, when they realized his immune system was a whiny bitch now.   
  
The doctor gives him a bunch of prescriptions, don’t drink alcohol, come back to see how you’re doing, useless, useless, useless.   
  
He doesn’t take the pills. He pretends, pockets them for later disposal, but he starts to forget to even pretend and so Lisa takes over. She gives him his pills every day, watches him swallow.   
  
She doesn’t see him throw them up later, capsule still intact. She won’t understand that he doesn’t want to feel better. His brother is dead, he has no purpose in life, and he doesn’t want some fucking chemicals to try to rewire his brain around that. It’s a cop out, a cheat to not feel the consequences of failure and he doesn’t deserve that.   
  
Lisa doesn’t deserve to deal with him though, so he tries harder. More smiling, more cooking, more working, more fixing, more more more. He spends so much time with Ben, teaching him about cars and food and girls, helping him with his homework and sneaking him extra cookies. Ben is the age Sammy was best at, when he was old enough to be fun and young enough to still be Sammy. And Ben has that same curiosity, that little bit of hero worship in his eyes like Sam used to have before Dean fucked everything up. He knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he works that much harder to earn it.   
  
Dean wants to be their world, Lisa and Ben, be everything they need. He knows he can’t. He’s not enough. Never has been. Not enough for them, and definitely not enough for Sam.   
  
But this is all he has left, and he gives it all to them.   
  
**-SPN-**  
  
Dean calls Sam on a Tuesday at the beginning of May. The number is for a phone they’ve had forever, one of those prepaid ones that only gets a certain number of minutes, but they bought it cheap somewhere and forgot about it. They both had three and four phones at a time and it was hard to keep track. Dean had tried every number he had for Sam, and one still worked, and stupidly, when the call goes through to ringing, he actually thinks for a second that Sam might pick up.   
  
“This is Sam. You know what to do.” His voice. His fucking voice, all automated but alive and deep and strong and waiting for him to speak.   
  
“Hiya, Sammy,” he murmurs past the lump in his throat. “This is stupid, I don’t know why I’m calling you. It’s just. Your birthday. It’s your birthday, and I was thinking about you.”   
  
He pauses, gives himself a moment to ponder just how truly pathetic this is, and then forges on. “Anyway. I know you aren’t much for this stuff, but I did get you one thing. I did what you asked. Lisa took me in. Ben is great. I got a job and I went to barbecues and I’ve even got health insurance and shit. Real apple pie life, right?” He forces a weird sort of high-pitched laugh.   
  
“Actual apple pie. Lisa’s making it because she knows it’s your birthday.” She’s actually making it because Dean is way too fucking skinny and she thinks maybe he’ll eat this. “’S like all those times we drunk dialed each other’s birthdays when you were gone, right, Sammy? It’s just like that. ‘Cept I’m not drunk.”   
  
He’s a little drunk. He’s got a bottle of Jack stashed under the sink in the guest bathroom and he’s sitting on the floor with only an inch left in the bottom of the bottle.   
  
“Anyway. I just wanted to tell you happy birthday. And I did what you asked.”  _So what do I do now?_  
  
“Miss you, little brother.” He clicks to hang up before Sam can hear the weird sort of hiccupping sob that forces its way out even though he isn’t crying, hasn’t cried, not once. Even though Sam wouldn’t have heard it even if he hadn’t hung up.   
  
They eat apple pie, and Dean notices that Lisa set an extra place at the table, right next to Dean. It’s strange but it helps a little, to imagine that Sam might just be running late, but he’s going to be here. Dean offers to clean up, listens as Lisa and Ben watch a movie in the living room. Before he goes to bed, he carves out an extra slice of pie and puts it on a plate at Sam’s spot. It feels stupid, because he knows, but it feels absurdly better too, like he’s offering this to Sam. Just so he knows he’s welcome any time.   
  
**-SPN-**  
  
When he sees Sam for the first time, he thinks he’s actually lost it. And then Sam is hugging him tight, crushing him and he smells like Sam and that stupid fruity shampoo he always buys on sale and he’s warm and strong and so fucking alive Dean feels dead in comparison.   
  
And Sam’s been back for so long, probably actually heard that stupid voicemail and he didn’t even call back. He left Dean to his fucking apple pie and his antidepressants and his health insurance like Dean didn’t matter anymore.   
  
He stays with Lisa and Ben. Keeps the pie and the pills and paperwork like it means something to him, but the second Sam calls, he’s gone.   
  
Because Lisa is the life he always wanted, but Sam is the only life he can live.   
  
**End.**  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now, but if anyone has an ideas/requests for this verse, I'd be happy to at least consider them!


End file.
